


Black Eyed Dog

by Brynnen, Piemachine (Brynnen)



Category: Phineas and Ferb
Genre: Danny helps with music because of course he does, Depression, Friendship, Gen, Little old ladies, Love Händel backstory, Paul the delivery boy, Sharing a Bed, Support, not hopeless, this whole thing is depressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-05-26 22:01:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15010349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brynnen/pseuds/Brynnen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brynnen/pseuds/Piemachine
Summary: Sherman's depression is bad today, all he wants is to get home in one piece and hide from the world. Fortunately he's got people who care around him.





	Black Eyed Dog

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING - this deals with mental health and depicts depression (YMMV on whether it jives with your own experiences). If you believe this may be a problem for your own wellbeing, please give this fic a miss. I'm already writing something much more cheerful.

'Oh God.' Sherman stared at the ceiling as his alarm blared in his ear, trying to muster up enough energy to roll over and switch it off. It was a bad day and he lacked the energy to do more than float in the sea of melancholy engulfing him. This was going to be a hard day...

He jerked back into awareness in the bathroom, there was a toothbrush in his mouth and his reflection stared back at him. It looked almost as bad as he actually felt. He made the mistake of meeting his eyes in the mirror and flinched at the raw pain he saw there.

He wasn't sure his usual professional manner was going to be able to conceal the fact he felt like he was suffocating in despair and thought about calling in sick. No, if he called in sick today, getting out of bed tomorrow would be almost impossible with a day of inertia behind him.

He swallowed his pills and ran an electric razor across his face, exerting the minimum necessary energy to make himself look presentable. That'll do, he looked like crap, but he had at least washed.

Mrs Huston was waiting at the front door to the library when he arrived at five to nine; she took one look at him and placed a gentle hand on his elbow.

'You look like you need a coffee, sweetie. You get the place opened and settle in, I'll get you a nice drink.'

She dumped her armful of notebooks on the table - it was book club day already? 'I'll be back soon, sweetie!'

Opening the blinds took forever, the rest of the book club straggling in and greeting him as he filled the room with obnoxious sunshine. By some miracle they congregated around the table furthest from his desk and chatted sotto voce. Their inane talk grated on him and he retreated to his desk, burying his face in his hands. It was gonna be a long day.

A take-out cup being set on the desk startled him out of his funk (not the good kind) and Mrs Huston clicked her tongue sympathetically. 'You okay to be here?'

Sherman dug deep to produce a smile for her, was self-conscious of how watery he knew it was. 'Yeah, I'll rest up this weekend, hopefully that'll sort me out.'

'Well don't push yourself too hard, you do watcha need to.' Her tone reminded him of his Nana's comfort, even if the accent was wrong. Ah, he hadn't been lying to the boys when he'd told them the sweet old ladies were a perk of the job. 

The kindness of Mrs Huston gave him a burst of energy and he switched his computer on and pulled the folder of purchase order documents out. Thursday was delivery day and bitter experience had taught him it was most survivable when he got his shit together in advance of Paul arriving.

He took a sip of the coffee as his computer warmed up and looked at the cup in surprise. Pumpkin spice latte? Was it that time of the year already? It was quieter during the day, the kids must be back in school.

Time passed slowly, then suddenly he'd look up and the clock would show him an hour had passed. It was the kind of strange that was depressingly normal and the way he was losing time probably ought to worry him, but Sherman signed Paul's form and received the pink copy and realised he couldn't remember if he'd had lunch or not. It was nearly three, so he probably had. He remembered Bobbi's disapproving look at his tubby waistline and realised he didn't deserve a meal either way.

A pit opened beneath him at that thought and he choked on air and too much hurt. His mobile phone vibrated in his pocket, bringing him back to the present and Sherman's hands felt numb as he opened it to read the text message he'd just received. "Hey dude, don't forget - dinner and jamming at mine tonight! It's Bobbi's turn to cook!"

Oh god. His chest tightened and he wanted to cry for no good reason, panic flushing through him at the unexpected (forgotten) extra social expectation being pushed on him. 

He had to sit very still and just breathe for several minutes to try and keep some vestige of professionalism. Fortunately the only service user was Gus the homeless guy who was too busy with the day's newspapers to notice Sherman's quiet breakdown.

At times like this he blessed his service-users' self-involvement. If more of them paid attention to their surroundings he might get reported for days like this, or worse someone might try and comfort him and Sherman wasn't sure he could cope with that.

Mechanically he completed the reshelving, just because he was having a hard day didn't give him an excuse to dump his work on tomorrow's Sherman. Tomorrow's Sherman was probably going to be feeling just as lousy as he currently did. And hadn't his doctor said to try and score little victories on days like this?

The next thing to do was reply to that text. His chest hurt at the thought of it, but if he ignored it the guys would get mad or worried, which would make things even worse.

Danny's phone chirped as he was peeling the veggies for Bobbi and he checked it to find a new message from Sherman. "im sorry i cant"

Alarm bells rang in Danny's head and he blanched at the message. Sherman always used proper grammar and punctuation in his messages. Something wasn't right.

'Something's wrong with Swampy.'

'So what's new? Have you seen his dress sense?' Bobbi sniped, but without the heat he would have had ten years ago. He hustled over to read over Danny's shoulder. 'Oh.'

'Yeah. Was it anxiety he used to have?' Bobbi frowned as he thought back to a time he didn't like to think about. 

'That was me, but that's in the past. Hmm, didn't Doc Mack give him Prozac?'

Danny shrugged, 'He came on board to help me play on with that broken wrist - I was on so many painkillers I don't remember that whole leg of the tour too good.'

The record label had forced that shady medic on them and they'd staggered through the tour in a haze created by the strange pills he'd shove in their hands and tell them to take. It had been the beginning of the end, thinking about it now. Too busy to rest up and heal properly the usual disagreements any friends had turned toxic.

Bobbi grimaced, 'That was where we really lost our mojo, we were just cash cows for the record company and the Hell with our health or comfort. But anyway, what about Sw..Sherman.' He stuttered over the name, still unused to it, but using it anyway.

Danny tried to think back, back to the beginning of the end of Love Händel and struggled through the fog of a broken right wrist and the pills Doc Mack had shovelled down their throats to keep them upright and playing. Swampy had been unusually okay with cuddles that leg of the tour, which was good given how cuddly the opiates had made Danny. 'I think he needs a hug.'

Bobbi gave him a dubious look over the top of his glasses. 'You're a great hugger, I know, but you don't actually have miraculous powers, Danny.'

Danny shrugged, 'But he'll know we care and that we're willing to help. And there's always the miracle of music!' he said with a nod to the battered acoustic guitar hanging on the kitchen wall.

Bobbi rolled his eyes, most homes did not need a guitar in every room, but Danny's interior decor was very true to the man he was. 'Fine! Put the vegetables in to roast and when this casserole is ready we'll head over.'

Lifting his arms above shoulder height was so exhausting he felt like he might faint, but Sherman forced himself to push through it and managed to close the blinds, tidy the library and lock up for the night. He just had to get home.

Relief almost made its way through the fog as he pushed on home. He stumbled up the stairs to his apartment and dropped his jacket on the already heaped couch on his way through to the bedroom. He hit play on the sound system as he passed it in the hopes the sound would fill the hollowness inside him.

As the music started he collapsed onto his bed and listlessly tugged the duvet over him in a cocoon of warm safety. Nothing more to face today. His mind circled and Sherman just tried to keep breathing.

The door to Sherman's apartment hung open, his keys still in the lock and Danny and Bobbi exchanged a worried glance and hurried in. Haunting choral music played and Danny shivered. Allegri's Miserere was never a good sign in his book.

Bobbi rolled his eyes, he'd never understood why anyone would want their house to sound like the middle of a Mass. Sheesh, this place looked like squatters had moved in, trashed the place and moved out again. 'You wanna go see Sherman while I deal with this?'

Danny nodded, 'I could be some time, maybe put the food in the oven t'stay warm?'

He went through to the bedroom and located Sherman by the shoes sticking out from under the duvet. Dude had it bad today.

Danny paused to work out where Sherman was, then sat on the edge of the bed, shuffling towards the centre of the mattress until he encountered a warm body. Carefully he lay down, spooning the lump under the duvet. 'Hey dude.' He slowly draped his arm roughly where he guessed Sherman's waist would be and rested his forehead against a possible shoulder.

Closing his eyes he began to hum the first song that came to mind, Leonard Cohen's 'Everybody Knows'. The duvet rustled partway through the rendition and Sherman gave him a look of complete bewilderment.

'Everybody knows that you've been faithful, give or take night or two that's how it goes everybody knows.' He joined in with the sort of world-weary gravel in his voice that even Cohen himself would have responded to with a suggestion he take it easy.

As the last note faded Sherman let his head loll into the crook of Danny's shoulder. 'I'm not good company today, Danny.' He warned, guilt lacing his voice.

Danny shrugged. 'Y'don't hafta be. You're my friend, that's all I need. Bobbi made food if y're hungry or we can just stay like this.'

Sherman didn't say a word, just relaxed into Danny with a groan. Danny couldn't guess at what was going on in his head, but he shifted to cuddle Sherman with one arm and pulled a copy of Guitar Monthly from his pocket with the other hand. 'Ooh, they got an article about the evolution of Delta Blues slide work!'

Bobbi wrinkled his nose at the state of the place. He almost didn't know where to start, but washing the dishes always made a good start. Sherman had always been sloppy, but this level of mess was Hoarders kind of level.

He switched the music over to a local jazz station and rolled his sleeves up. Bobbi had never been one for introspection or deep conversations and he left the mushy stuff to Danny, but he knew the mess had to be getting to Sherman and this was something he could do to help his friend. Yeah! 

He scatted along to the song on the radio as he set to work, filling a trash bag with the debris, filling the sink with hot water and getting to grips with the task at hand. Sherman wouldn't exactly do the same for him, but he would turn up with take-out, trashy magazines and keep him company when Bobbi needed it and Bobbi hadn't realised just how lonely he'd been until those two goofballs had come back into his life.

There was a battered guitar on the sofa and notebook with lyrics and tabs in Sherman's blocky script. Danny might say his Fingerstyle technique was messy, but Sherman was a decent rhythm guitarist when he wanted to be and plenty good enough for songwriting. Bobbi placed it to one side as he tidied up the couch and coffee table.

At last the place looked liveable and Bobbi flopped onto the sofa with a sigh. He picked up the notepad and flipped through it, frowning at some of the lyrics. Yup, Swampy had it bad right now. Bobbi sighed, not wanting to remember how it was last time.

He grabbed a pen and scribbled a message for Sherman to find later, then put it aside and ventured into the bedroom.

'How's the hugging going?'

Danny looked up from his magazine, tilting his chin to avoid jabbing Sherman who was resting across his chest. 'I could do with reinforcements, t'be honest, buddy.'

'Fortunately I am an excellent hugger.' Bobbi kicked off his shoes and crawled across the wide bed to sandwich Sherman between himself and Danny.

He removed his spectacles and rested his face on the hollow between Sherman's shoulder-blades, looping an arm over his waist. His hand rested comfortably on Sherman's stomach and Bobbi relaxed.

 

'This too will pass, my friend.' Bobbi reminded himself and the others.

'Even if it doesn't feel that way right now, huh?' Danny agreed with a melancholic sense of philosophy. Sherman pressed back against Bobbi and squeezed Danny's shoulder.

'Thanks guys.' Tears still leaked from the corners of his closed eyes and he couldn't muster the energy to move, but the guys were here for him and no one expected any more from him than he could give right now. This too would pass.


End file.
